Fatherhood Eve

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

I'd so love to see it.

It's the kind of hot where you think, Jesus Christ this laptop is like an oven - then you see the landscaping guys with the leaf blowers. Then you feel bad. Then you realize they probably make more money than you do. You still feel bad, though. For everyone involved.

It's the kind of hot where even I'll wear a wife-beater and shorts, and I hate dressing like that. I feel like I should be playing hide and go seek. Sneaking cookies. You can't hide from the heat, though. That shit will seek you out like a missile.

It's the kind of hot where you don't even want to breathe the fucking air. It smells like hot plant rot and cigarettes. If I was still smoking would I smoke today? Probably. That's stupid as shit. There are a lot of things I want right now, but a smoke-scraped throat ain't on the list.

It's the kind of hot where dudes get all swaggery on the sidewalk. Like they can't fight the hot, so they'll take a poke at you. Shoulder bump, ignorant, TV-slapped, baby-faced, 'tough' motherfuckers. Usually, they make me smile. Today, well - it's fucking hot. If you want to be tough, I'd love to see it. I won't even try to talk my way out of it. It's dog fight hot. You might be surprised what lies behind this pacifist disguise. It's too hot though. Come on guys ...

It's the kind of hot where it looks like everyone has some horrible fucking disease. Malaria, Typhoid, Apathy - whatever turns your cheeks red and makes every part of your body that touches another part of your body hate you.

It's the kind of hot where Of course I want a hug - a short goddamned hug!

It's the kind of hot where you gotta work on your novel, but your brain ain't pinging on all the right synapses. So, you think you'll just write a little story. But the story's got not plot, it's just got hot.

In the Motherland, the weather's cold and the clouds have covered over the skies and the temperature's fallen through the floor. Of course it's night here now but it's been the same all the day.

Now, I'm not talking about that kind of hot. I'm talking about the burr up your ass sort of hot that makes you sweat even though you've got icicles hanging from your guttering. The sort of hot that makes you squirm in your seat and pull yourself a little closer to the screen just so you can type a little quicker. The sort of hot that Dan Mader pushes on a weekly basis.

I used to be a guy that wrote and then filled a page and then thought about it a while and then deleted half of it before starting all over again. And that wasn't good but then it wasn't bad. And no-one saw it and no-one said you ain't achieving shit. But then I got hooked on flash fiction.